Time to Pretend
by punkrockwarlord
Summary: A story set in the DA universe 8 yrs after The Pulse. NYC is just as corrupt as Seattle, and a man within the ruins, working for Cale Industries, admiss the world of broken hopes and dreams.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Dark Angel, just a fan being creative. Don't sue me; it's not worth your time. **

_**A/N: This is a story I made up when thinking about the other parts of the USA which have been affected by The Pulse. So I came to this character and his struggle.**__** Around 2017. **_

_Feedback is highly appreciated.___

The cold harsh air stung my lungs as I inhaled it. It felt like hot knives were cutting into my soft insides. I looked at the gray sky as I wrapped my parka closer around my head in a futile attempt to keep my body heat from escaping any more than it already has. Typical New York winter day. My hands trembled as I lit a cigarette with my precious Elvis Zippo. Ha, nobody listened to music too much these days where I lived, much less the King. As I sucked the tobacco smoke in my lungs I remembered my vast music collection I had as a teenager. It was all digital of course, so it was wiped away during the Pulse. All except for a few vintage records, my music was gone. That easy.

I coughed. The smoke hurt my lungs. I had only smoked Indonesian Clove cigarettes before the Pulse, but Indonesian ships never came to New York City anymore. Why would they? If Americans want to deal with them we would sail to Jakarta these days. My lips twist into a bitter smile. It's ironic really, how the Pulse reversed to roles of the world. American became the shithole governments warned their citizens not to vacation in. It was America where other countries came to dump their toxic waste, America where crime and corruption was the norm, America were the country had an armed revolution every other year.

It was ironic really, how for forty years Americans heard stories about poor little African countries, constantly beset with war, famine, corruption, and disease. Did we care back then? Not really. Yeah so maybe we held a charity concert for them once in a while but did we honestly give a rat's ass about those starving Africans? Not a damn bit. So now in 2017, eight years after the Pulse devastated us, Angola is filthy rich, The Sudan is booming, Madagascar the top grossing tourist destination, and Sierra Leone is the banking capital of the world. Do these Africans give a shit about a '_has been super power'_, a country that never cared about any of them? Do they care at all about how four out of five Americans that didn't eat three square meals a day? We already know the answer to that question here in NYC.

I took another puff, but the cheap unfiltered cigarette didn't relax me. They haven't put actual nicotine in these things for years, too expensive. Its almost pure tobacco now, and God do I miss my calming nicotine. I'm standing on the shore of the beach, the gray disgusting water crashing and lapping near my boots. There is a fair amount of people around me, all wearing different faces. Some glare in anger at what's happening, some looking like they could cry; one old man pathetically weeps into his dense white beard. Others just don't care; after all they have real concerns like finding their next meal, or paying the rent.

Nobody speaks for a long time. Suddenly a scruffy looking teenager interjects his voice over the roaring Atlantic waves. "Let them have it. That's just a falling down piece of junk, why do you we care? It don't matter nothing to me, anyways."

An old man snaps back, "Why? Because they're stealing American itself? Is that why boy? I fought the gooks on the Yalu River to prevent this day from coming. Shit," the old man spit bitterly onto a hand as he moved his wrinkled hands closer to the fire.

"But what can we do against them?" I asked, without turning to face the two. The Arabic men on the far off island were tiny and the statue they were disassembling looked pitiful. The torch was gone, along with the entire left arm. The head has already removed, and the men were working on the torso.

"Ah hell the goddamn French made that thing anyway you know?" The woman looked bored as she rubbed her mittened hands together. "Remember how they fucked us over two years ago, good riddance to their gift."

"You should be ashamed talking like that! You're all pathetic excuses for Americans! We ruled the entire world in my day! It meant something to be American! We were proud!" The old war veteran was almost screaming, "And now these foreigners think they can waltz in here and steal the goddamn Statue of Liberty?"

"They don't just think so," I said quietly so the broken old man didn't hear me. "The mayor sold it to that Sultan for a few million last week."

"Yeah and I bet he-a gunna be using dat money to fix up tha city too!" A middle aged black woman said. "I just fucking bet he will!"

I threw my cigarette down into the wet sand, and redundantly squashed it with my boot. I couldn't watch these men trample on my culture any longer. I walked away from the beach, past the few strangles of grass onto the parking lot. Once there I turned around to face this dirty, polluted, dying beach. I saw the sad lonely people huddled around a burning car for warmth, watching their very nation being hijacked in front of them. Graffiti hid the name of this desolate, trash covered beach, the sign it self was sagging from disrepair. I though to myself, _'wow, what a great metaphor for this country. A broken down shell with people stealing what's left of it_'. I lit another cigarette and jumped onto my bike. Shit. I was late for work

*****

I walked past the broken elevator, into the crumbling stairwell. I sighed; it had been a long hard day at work. Everyone was down about the whole statue business, especially the New Yorkers who had lived here pre-Pulse. The bleak weather all matched the mood of the city. As I climbed each stair I thought about the good old days; back in youth. I remembered watching TV with my family. I remembered my blue ipod. My smile dropped and my heart skipped a beat. I remembered Mary Lou.

Mary Lou. I kept climbing, why did I pick the top floor to squat in? My mind ran over Mary Lou again and again. I still remember her face, eight years later. I remember her beautiful eyes, eyes the color of the sea. I remember her soft body, her warm hands. Her soothing touch on my body. I remembered her teeth, her cute little teeth, her sweet lips, her skinny frame. I remembered the way she would get totally lost in the smallest things. She would laugh for days over the tiniest thing that wasn't really funny, but still somehow made me laugh every time. I remembered…what was the word….netting?….no….ah yes, I remember texting her until the sun came up. I remember driving to her house to pick her up. I laughed as I pulled myself up the last few steps. I had had a car back then. And I wasn't even rich.

My door was open. Broken open actually, the splintered deadbolt laying in the doorway. Someone broke in again. I sighed. The robbers must have been looking for something to pawn. Of course they would have found nothing of value, for I own nothing of monetary worth. I grasped around the wall for the light switch, praying to the God I didn't believe in that they didn't trash my pad at least.

The bare light bulb flickered on. I saw my pad, the cracked linoleum floor, the piles of dusty old books, my garbage bag full of old moldy food, my tattered mattress and my clothes laying in a dirty heap. I breathed out a big sigh of relief when I looked at the far wall. They had left my only prize. From the wall Mary Lou's face stared back at me. I smiled because she was smiling in the picture, as was I. We were so young, so carefree. We didn't know the end of the world was a week away when we snapped this picture. I didn't know when she left for vacation I would never see her again. I didn't know when the lights turned off they wouldn't ever turn back on for me. I didn't know when the car wouldn't start I would never drive on again. I didn't know the food ran out the riots would break out. I didn't know when the police declared martial law they wouldn't ever lift it. I didn't know when the President stopped speaking publicly he had be overthrown by the military. Hell I didn't even know one day I would be considering the guy who broke into my apartment a nice guy because he only took my radio. It turns out I didn't know a lot of things.

That night after I ate, and brushed my remaining teeth with that foul tasting chemical soap I laid down on my mattress. I rested on my side and wrapped my one fraying blanket around me. I pulled my hood closer to my head. My body was frozen to the bone, or so it felt like. I guess they shut off the heat I had rewired into my pad. I sat up and looked at Mary Lou's picture.

"_Hey._

_I've been fine. Just fine. How was South Carolina?_

_So it was nice then? Good, good. I missed you baby._

_Ha, did your family drive you nuts? That was a lot of together time._

_Haha true that. Did you buy me anything down there?_

_No I don't mind at all, I'm just glad your back._

_Oh you gotta go now? Ok well text me later ok? We gotta do some catching up!_

_Bye bye, I love you baby."_

I lay back down on my mattress. I love you. A tear slid out of my eye, like a man escaping from prison. It ran down my cheek leaving a clean steak down my face. The tear slid onto my lip. It tasted a little salty as my tongue whisked the tear away. I love you. The words I never said to sweet Mary Lou. I love you. The words I never said to the only girl I ever actually loved. Its ironic really I thought. As I started to drift off to blissful sleep I glanced out the open window almost unconsciously.

And suddenly I remembered something, the reason I squatted on the top floor of an empty office skyscraper in Manhattan, an urban ghetto. From here the rising sun used to illuminate the Statue of Liberty every morning. I had grown so used to it I had forgotten. Mary Lou had wanted so badly to go to NYC and see the Statue. I had picked this place as I forlorn way to be closer to my love. It was my tribute to her in a sense.

But I knew tomorrow the sun would rise and no Statue would be there. And I knew I would look out there and cry. Cry not only because the quintessential American icon is gone, but cry because it will be a cold slap of reality. It will be a constant reminder dreams don't amount to anything, only what's real counts. I will think about how I struggle on everyday, how Mary Lou is always on my mind, how she must have loved me too, and how in all probability is long dead. I will wake up tomorrow in a sad, uncaring, dying country. But by the end of the day I will have decided to hold on to my tiny shard of hope she will one day come to her dream vantage point and find me, still waiting for her.

I lifted my hand out of my old hoody, and rooted around my bedside for my one other precious item. My calloused hand closed around the plastic object. I pressed the faded green send button. Of course the cell phone didn't turn on. It's been eight years dead, killed the same instant America died. But I press the button anyway and bring the phone up to my ear. I speak into the long dead phone.

"Mary Lou? Hey sorry but I couldn't wait for you to call me back darling. I just want to hear your sweet voice again. It's been so, so long…"

_Feedback is welcome and let me know if this should continue to another chapter. Thanks._

_-Nate._


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